The Alter Ego Theory
by witchfingers
Summary: "...being a man with a strong sense of practicality he did note, that the girl was soaking wet, and the old man was immaculately dry, although neither carried an umbrella." What starts as an unlikely, mundane misfortune might just trigger a turn of events in the life of an older Seto. That is, if he lives to tell the tale.
1. A man that rarely smiled

_Only disclaimer: I don't own much more than my ideas._

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**The Alter Ego Theory**

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He arrived at the bus stop meticulously dry under his navy blue umbrella. Only his shoes were wet, and his socks inside them, but he didn't really mind. His thoughts were elsewhere, far, far away, maybe trying to catch up to him from the dirt road he'd just been running on.

The thing is that, despite it all, it was so unlikely he'd be there. Popular belief would dictate that a man with two MBAs and his knack for sniffing out skyrocketing return on investments would be driving a sleek car, probably gunmetal grey, listening to some snobbish type of high-class trance and watching the road lights go by like frantic fireflies. Yet there he was, so late, so far from home. So many paradoxes, all converging in his designer clothes and the dark bags under his eyes.

The sticker on the bus stop's metal frame with the schedule said there was still half an hour left until the next bus turned up. Despite that, he didn't take a seat, just waited, just looked at the relentlessly falling rain. On a spur of awareness, he hazily calculated he wouldn't be back home before midnight.

The bus stop was almost empty, but the rain, the cold, and the darkness made it feel almost crowded. A skinny girl with a hoodie sat to his right, an old yet vigorous man, stood to his left. Distracted as he was, he did not pay much attention to either, but being a man with a strong sense of practicality he did note, that the girl was soaking wet, and the old man was immaculately dry, although neither carried an umbrella. She had a white bag, he wore a WWII-like trenchcoat; and he labeled them in his head by force of habit, mechanically, as if they were individuals to transact business with- the careless girl, the KGB officer. He'd buy stock from neither, he thought, which brought a frail, distant smile to his lips.

Minutes passed in rural silence, and a chorus of frogs made up for the lack of interaction between the three strangers, that could have very well been the last inhabitants of the world in that moment. Three people who, most likely, had been gathered in that place due to the most dissimilar (yet surely equally bizarre) reasons.

The city was, after all, further away than anyone would wish it to be so late on a working day.

When the bus arrived, he courteously let the girl and the old man go in first. The driver was a young, bald man, with an intelligent shine in his eyes, and an assortment of facial tattoos that made him look like a convict or a tiki god, and strangely in place with the slightly-offness of the night.

Gently, the engine was started and the bus set in motion.

He failed to be pleased with himself for always coming back. From the formal clothes to the wooden hilt of his umbrella, he didn't belong in the peaceful world of ancient continuance that the temple preserved; he, with his class and wealth and renown, felt almost stupid for trying to offer a prayer to some whatever gods he'd never much cared about, much more when he knew it was both hypocritical and the right thing to do. Yet, there he was.

Again.

The logical side of his brain was still trying to decode how it worked, the feeling of void when his brother left for university to another city, the involuntary remembrance of the good and bad times past, the pang in his chest when he waved at him in the airport for the last time, the first time he left, and the single thought spared to his parents during the solitary car drive back home.

That had been five years ago. And, roughly about that time, driven by something akin to nostalgia (and definitely not regret), was when he had found out where their parents were buried. He remembered the kindness of the priest despite his edginess. His feeling at a loss for words when he saw the gravestone.

The following year, his brother had come with him to visit, marking an anniversary and a routine of sorts.

They'd taken the bus there, like two any other ordinary kids going to see their parents' burial site. It was strangely relieving, to be just the two of them on a bus that was always almost empty. They didn't need to drive in privacy, where sentiments flowed with more ease and tears would make them awkward, if they maybe wouldn't withstand it. It could be done without. It was for the better.

Term tests this year had kept his brother from coming, but he, he had come, nonetheless.

And there he was, and as always, the ride would be long and quiet. There had only been two other men already on the bus, grim and almost asleep, when he and the other two waiting with him at the bus stop got in; and there was something strange about the whole scene, as if the atmosphere was dense or as if he were having a déjà vu; and even the bus driver looked slightly solemn through the rearview mirror.

He went through the trouble of reasoning with himself that he was probably too tired, overworked, and most likely more affected by the visit to his parents' graves than he consciously acknowledged.

He watched the landscape go by slowly, the scarce lights of the countryside flickering warmly beyond the continual line of street lights along the empty road. It felt like being in a trance, almost, though the air was pretty cold and the floor of the bus was patterned with muddy footprints.

A sudden shake tore him out of his slumberous thoughts, just in time for him to see the full unfolding of what followed, in what felt like a series of inevitable, slow-motion film clips. The bus had evidently caught the wrong angle of a cranny on the road and lost stability, which sent it on a slippery slide towards the grassy side of the road. The wheels lost grip due to the rain, and however hard the driver stepped on the brakes, the bus still ended up crashing against a tree with a considerably thick trunk, with a loud, unpleasant _thud._

The bus had not been going at too great a speed, though, and for a while, all what could be heard was the rain and the engine, struggling to keep the vehicle going on beyond the tree, towards the rice fields. But it eventually gave up, and after emitting a high-pitched sizzling noise, it fell silent.

Afterwards, all that remained was the sound of the rain, gently drumming on the metal roof of the bus.

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_**Alter ego:** A doctrine used by the courts to ignore the corporate status of a group of stockholders, officers, and directors of a corporation in reference to their limited liability so that they may be held personally liable for their actions when they have acted fraudulently or unjustly or when to refuse to do so would deprive an innocent victim of redress for an injury caused by them._

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**Author's note:** Well, it's been a while since I wrote anything. This has been going around in my mind and thought I'd write it so that it stops coming up at unexpected moments when I'm trying to concentrate :)

Comments are greatly appeciated! And stay alert, I might update this rather fast these days ;)


	2. non bis in idem

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**2**

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The five passengers stood under the rain, forming a semicircle around the resigned driver, who was taking a look at the engine and seeing what could be done. Not much, apparently.

He, on the other hand, had immediately tried to contact either the SOS services or his chauffer, whichever would answer him first, but, as luck would have it, they were too far in the countryside to have network coverage. He pocketed his phone, and, frowning, looked on like the other passengers.

The bus driver was fiddling around with a wrench. He had, beyond the extravagant facial tattoos, a large tattoo that took up most of his forearm, and read, in capital letters, NON BIS IN IDEM.

Somehow, inexplicably, he remained looking at it a period of time he could not calculate- it caused him a great impression. As if, deep within him, those words had any meaning. But as soon as his conscious thinking regained prevalence, he shook himself out of it and concluded he really needed to get back home and sleep a great deal. Maybe even not go to work the following day.

"Would any of you like to take a look?" The driver asked, but no one present knew much about engines. He closed the hood with a sigh, and an apologetic look on his face, and got on the bus to ask for help on the radio.

He soon found himself reluctantly forfeiting the soothing coolness of the sleeping countryside along with the other passengers, as first the old man, and then the two men, followed the driver back into the bus. He spared a blasé glance to the girl, whose dark hood shielded her face partially from view, but not her body from the rain, which had by now slowed down to a drizzle. He didn't linger, and soon after he'd come back into the bus, she came back in as well.

The radio could be heard from the last row of seats, entwined with the driver's steady voice. It was not long before the conversation was over, and the man addressed them. Rather than returning to the places where they had haphazardly sat originally, they had accommodated themselves in the front seats, and listened intently.

"They'll be sending a rescue vehicle along with the mechanical aid truck. They estimate they'll be here within an hour and a half."

"Maaan, I'm so not getting laid tonight," one of the two men drawled. His companion chuckled slightly at his expense, and patted his back, uttering some encouraging words.

Interestingly enough, other than that, no one really complained.

He personally found the comment rather annoying. _Next time keep your petty intimacies to yourself_, he tried to convey with his glare, but he wasn't particularly successful.

A look from the bus driver, and a rather disgusted grimace on the old man's mouth told him he wasn't the only one entertaining the thought.

"So, that's that," either of the men said, and both of them arose and walked casually towards the back of the bus, where they stretched and made themselves comfortable. They didn't seem to mind the idle scrutiny of the three remaining men on the bus, (the driver, impassive, the old man, judging, and him, nonchalant by default), not when they retrieved some cans of beer from their backpacks, not when one of them grabbed a smartphone and a completely out of place kind of foreign music started playing, a tune that was absolutely out of place at the moment, and grated on everybody else's nerves- a vile mixture of rap with someone singing, now and then, a _Yalla Yalla_. The music, the voices of the two individuals, and the mixed smells of beer and potato chips displaced the peaceful, if eerie, atmosphere that had been installed by the night and the rain, and made it slightly akin to a cheap-pub-feel in a rundown part of town.

He was beyond it, he'd endured worse, and if he could avoid it, he'd rather not complain. Complaining was for lesser people and immature pricks. He'd complained enough in his teenage years to last him a lifetime.

Not everyone was as patient as him.

"It's a sorry state most men have come to," the old man commented, shaking his head, his eyes sporting a grave shine to them.

"Perhaps, but it should be fine," said the driver, "If all goes well, it won't take long to send someone for us. They're usually very efficient."

"However efficient they might be, they'll still take over an hour to be here," the old man moodily replied, "I'm old, and I'm not up to obliging those thugs. It's bad already as it is. They should be told to be civilized and stay quiet."

The conversation had drawn the girl's attention, and she was now also facing the driver.

"I would not advise that," the bus driver said calmly, "That sort of people, it's the kind that's fast to pick a fight. They're as bored and confined as we are, though probably much more volatile. It's better for all of us to let them be."

The old man was about to protest, and in an unkind manner as well, probably, but he was quick to speak before the other did:

"The man is right," he said, regally, and his voice sounded rich and even, "It's pointless to bother. Starting a fight won't do anyone any good." Being regal was something he'd been working on recently. One day he'd woken up thinking it'd be a great treat to pick up.

But it certainly didn't seem to appease the old man, whom, the more they talked about it, the more he seemed to be convinced of his not needing to stand the two men sitting on the back. However, he said nothing, only scowled and squiggled slightly against his seat, so as to show that he was neither pleased nor comfortable.

"Don't take it personal, sir," a new voice chimed. It was the girl, speaking for the first time. "Soon, they'll come for us, and we'll get home faster than we would have otherwise."

"She's right," the driver asserted, "Was any of you in a hurry?"

"Not particularly," he said.

"No, me neither," she answered.

"My grandchildren are waiting for me," the old man murmured, with slight bitterness. "I can't even let them know we're… delayed. They'll worry about me, that's for sure."

For some reason, it occurred to the three of them at the same time, that it was slightly surprising that the old man had anyone to worry about him, let alone grandchildren, despite his age.

"I am deeply sorry to hear that, sir," the bus driver said, frowning, "I don't suppose we could reach your family with my radio?"

"No," the old man replied, "But it's alright, it's alright, don't worry. They should go to sleep soon, anyway, if that good-for-nothing mother of theirs has learnt anything about discipline since the last time…"

He passed his hand through his hair slowly, starting to regret not having driven to the temple on the first place. He'd never really liked listening to people complaining about parents, or children, or anything. Maybe it was a 'touchy subject'. Many people had those.

"And what about you?" the girl said, addressing the driver, "Were you in a hurry to be back?"

The driver smiled, perhaps for the first time, in return for the girl's kindness. "Not really. I have the night shift during the week."

"I see…"

Despite it all, they were not having an awkward conversation. Their exchanges were slow, unhurried, and, from what was becoming apparent, none was too talkative a person. So it was fine. They were strangers, after all, and they had plenty of time on their hands.

"I hope this is not too personal a question, Mr. Driver," the girl said, "But what does that mean? Non bys… in… ídem?"

She'd stolen another smile from the tattooed man; and he found himself paying attention to what the man answered, because he'd been wondering about the scripture since he'd first seen it, too.

"Non bis in idem. It means," he said, lowering his voice to become almost confidential, "That you cannot be tried twice for the same crime."

Even the old man's curiosity seemed to be piqued at the unexpected answer: "You did not strike me as former convict," he commented lightly.

"I'm not," the bus driver answered, lightly as well, "I was a justice, for many years. I got this tattoo the day I quit."

No one asked any further questions, mainly because the former judge would probably be fine with answering them, and they were sensible enough to sense a sad story behind the dramatic shift in profession.

It seemed, he thought, that everything that night was doomed to come out with a slightly tragic tinge. Such was the feeling he got, from the temperature of the air and the unwavering street lights, that sported a yellowish halo of mist and drizzle.

And all the while, the two men's ungodly music kept playing in the background, though now it had subdued to some kind of trance laden with oriental undertones.

The girl's voice chimed again:

"You wouldn't have water, by any chance?"

It was a completely random question, that reverberated in his chest for whatever reason- she had a nice voice, that was it, surely. Neither the driver nor the old man did, he neither, but couldn't keep his eyebrow from rising questioningly, as if there were anything else to it.

She smiled sheepishly, biting her lower lip.

"Well… it suddenly feels as if I'd not drunk anything in ages…"

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**Author's note:**

Well well, something seems about to happen...

The music the two guys are listening to, in case anyone wants to picture the scene more clearly (or just for the heck of it), is 'Yalla Yalla' _ (Ishtar Alabina Ft. Ilan Babylo)_ Have fun ;) Btw, that's totally what Malik listens to real loud on his car when he goes for a night drive through the desert ;). I want to say that I don't consider it vile or anything of the sort, it's a nice song, it's the other characters that didn't like it. Heh.

I wonder if you already guessed who the characters are...? Most probably. I'll try to tuck in some names as soon as the plot allows me to :)

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I want to thank Erik's Champion, Unita, and Within A Tragedy most kindly for their nice reviews. I'm always glad to read your comments and receive your suggestions :)


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